


Glimpses of a Waking Dream

by dallaluna



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, But also some of my invention, F/M, Mainly canon moments, Mutual Pining, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2019-12-30 08:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18311831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dallaluna/pseuds/dallaluna
Summary: Moments from the relationship of Solas and Lavellan in no particular chronological order.  Will likely be largely canon moments, with some other imagined interactions interspersed.***Chapter 2It has been ages since Solas has stepped out of a sultry room abuzz with gossip, seductions and plots into the wash of cool night air.  For a moment, he is transported back to Arlathan, and it is almost as if the receding din is that of the Hall of Elgar’nan rather than Halamshiral.  He remembers, viscerally, the way the exhaustion and triumph would set in all at once as soon as he was alone beneath an open sky; and how, even when he was convinced of a flawless performance, his mind would race for hours, and he would re-examine every word and gesture for any possible misstep…Of course, before all that, he was merely a spectator, as tonight.  This place is only a pale imitation of Arlathan, and the stakes of the Great Game are child’s play in comparison, but it is nevertheless strangely comforting to see that the way the Game is played has hardly changed.





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N** :  I realize I am years late to the expansion/exploration of canon moments between Solas and Lavellan, and that it has probably been done a thousand times by writers more talented than I, but I came to the game somewhat late and I find their romance completely fascinating, I'm going to go ahead and post these anyways.  (Lavellan will remain nameless because I have never found a name for her that I love, and Lavellan names can be one of the most jarring aspects of DA:I fic.)  Some chapters will be from Solas' perspective. 

 

* * *

 

_After Crestwood_

 

* * *

 

She tries not to dwell on it—tries to focus on what must be done—but it is impossible to keep it from her thoughts.  When she catches the reflection of her bare face in a window or looking glass, or sees him across the Great Hall (during his rare and brief forays outside his study), the dull ache grows sharp.  She has to battle the impulse to steal away to an empty corridor.  She has to force herself to be composed and collected: the Herald of Andraste, the leader they all deserve. 

 

Fortunately, diversions are easy enough to come by in Skyhold.   Much of her day is spent at the War Table, overseeing preparations with her advisers.  When not occupied with her duties, she seeks out Dorian to discuss spellcasting techniques, or oversees Sera’s pranks (she has decided that if she doesn’t participate, she isn’t _necessarily_ complicit in the resulting chaos, and it really is better that someone checks Sera’s wilder ideas…).  On the rare occasion that no responsibilities or companions present themselves, she sits atop the battlements and thumbs through a well-worn copy of _Hard Times in Hightown_. 

 

By now, everyone knows not to speak to her of Solas — or _nearly_ everyone.  She diligently avoids Cole, though she feels guilty for it.  The last thing in the world she wants or needs is to hear her pain and anger expressed aloud in alliterative phrases.

 

It is only at night, when the strange still settles over Skyhold, that she cannot keep it from dominating her thoughts.  The loss of her _vallaslin_ weighs on her as much as the loss of him.  She thinks on the pride with which her father—born to squalor and degradation in an Elven alienage—recalled the day he received his _vallaslin_.  It was then, he said, that he became a _true_ elf.  She thinks on the pride and sense of belonging she felt when she received hers.

 

Those memories will never mean what they once did.  She will never be what she was before.

 

She resents Solas for telling her, and herself for wishing she remained ignorant.  She is torn between anger that he robbed her of her peace, grudging gratitude that he trusted her with the truth, bewilderment at his behavior, and the agony of wondering what, if anything, they are to one another now.  She never approaches even a passing sense of peace.      

  

A week after their return from Crestwood, she decides enough is enough.  She is done lying awake each night, like this, wondering why.  She knows an explanation may not ease the pain of their break, but at least it will quiet her thoughts.  She throws off her blanket and gropes through the dark for her clothes. 

 

She is generally not given to indulging impulses.  Under ordinary circumstances, in the midst of fumbling with the buttons on her tunic and combing her fingers through her hair, she would reconsider.  She might even begin to feel embarrassed that she entertained the thought at all.  _In the morning_ , she would decide.  _Or maybe it’s better to leave things as they are_.

 

Tonight, however, her conviction never wavers.  Somehow, she knows that she’ll find him awake in his study, late as the hour is.  She doesn’t know what she’ll say, but that doesn’t shake her confidence.  She will find him alone and he will have no choice but to speak to her.  That is what matters.  The rest will follow.

 

She feels strangely calm as she descends the stairs from her room to the Hall.  At night, the walls of Skyhold seem to breathe, deep and even, and the steady rhythm guides her steps forward.  She arrives at his study as one arrives at destinations in a dream, without the sensation of having moved at all. 

 

The door is ajar and a column of light shines through.   She pulls it open gently with the intention of announcing herself, but her voice catches in her throat when she sees him.

 

He is painting.  His shirt and tunic are hung on the ladder to the scaffolding, and his forearms are streaked with paint.  He is sketching out the final panel of his mural: she can make out the beginnings of a wolf-like creature, looming over something smaller. 

 

She has observed the gradual progress of Solas’ murals with interest, and wondered why she never saw him at work.  She understands now. 

 

He is engrossed.  His expression and movements are intense, unguarded.  She cannot translate the knit of his brows, the grim set of his mouth, or the violent energy of his brushstrokes into a single emotion, but she is certain that he would not look so if he knew he were being watched.  Part of her feels guilty at the intrusion, but the better part of her is enthralled. 

 

And then Solas notices her.  His expression goes blank.   

 

“Inquisitor,” he says, his tone neutral.  “How long have you been standing there?”

 

“Only a moment,” she answers quickly.  Her trespass feels more egregious than that, but it cannot have been more than a few seconds.  She realizes she is staring at the jaw bone hanging on his bare chest and lowers her eyes, her face warm.

 

How is it that she never asked him about its origins?  She never _really_ pressed him about his family, either.  For the countless discussions they’ve had about spirits and the Fade and the things he has seen, she knows so little of where he comes from.  With a pang, she thinks there is little chance now that she ever will.   

 

“You should not have come.”  The harshness of his tone takes her aback.  He sets down his paintbrush on his desk and adds more gently, “You need your rest.  There is still much to be done.”

 

“I’d like to discuss what happened before, Solas.”  She is pleased with her delivery: she sounds eminently reasonable.  One might even forget that she has ambushed him in the middle of night.

 

“I do not believe that would be appropriate at this time,” he replies primly. 

                                                     

 _Appropriate_.  She would laugh, but she’s too furious.  “Because you don’t intend to speak to me about anything but Corypheus ever again?”

 

The calm sense of purpose that carried her here has all but abandoned her.  She realizes, too, that she misbuttoned her tunic—two slits are unpaired at the top, and the whole thing is askew.  She must appear unhinged.  At least he has the good grace to pretend not to notice.    

 

“We must focus our efforts on what truly matters.”    

 

She allows herself to hope that he is merely reciting platitudes about duty, unaware of the implication of his words, but she cannot think of a time when he was careless with anything (save her heart, _hah_ ). 

 

What he intended to say, then, is this: _What we had does not matter._

She has let his words shape the way she sees the world almost since the day she met him—not thoughtlessly, or without questioning or doubt or even indignation, but his impact has been profound all the same.  Not now.  She won’t let him turn what they had into something false. 

 

Still, she cannot bring herself to insist that it matters.  She has pride enough of her own.  So instead, her thoughts turn to a grievance she can air without revealing how deeply he has hurt her.        

 

“You’ve learned countless things about our people in the Fade.  Why was _that_ the one you felt you had to share?  What am I meant to tell my clan—or even the elves in our ranks?”

 

For the second time in a matter of minutes—a true coup— it seems she has caught Solas off-guard.  He stares, lips parted, for a moment, before his expression settles back into a neutral expression.    

 

“You must tell your people whatever you see fit,” he says, not quite meeting her gaze.  “You know them better than I.”

 

“Naturally— _you’ve_ never shown any real interest in understanding ‘ _my_ ’ people.”  She draws closer than she should and looks Solas squarely in the eyes.  (He does not flinch.)  Her heart drums a frantic beat in her chest.  “You’ve scorned the Dalish for what we do not know, but we _try_.  We do our best to preserve the knowledge we have and take pride in passing it down.  You know more of our people’s history than anyone, but you hoard it, and share only what it suits you to share.  It doesn’t make you better than us — it makes you _selfish_ and a _hypocrite_.” 

 

She is trembling when she finishes this diatribe.  She doesn’t know why she’s said this.  Solas might have deserved a lecture about his attitude towards the Dalish once, but he doesn’t anymore.  He made an effort to better understand them, or at least to be more tolerant of them, because of her — _for_ her.  In truth, she isn’t angry about his attitude towards other elves, or what he could tell _them_ — she is hurt and angry that he has closed himself off to _her_. 

 

Solas accepts her words with a bowed head, neither angry nor apologetic, simply resigned.   

 

“Do you believe that the other truths I have seen in the Fade are any less painful than the one I shared with you?”  The question is not an accusation, but an entreaty.  They are still painfully near to one another, and the air seems to bristle with energy, as after a volley of spells in the midst of battle.

 

As it did in Crestwood that night— the Fade tingling on her skin, heightening the sensation of each touch, each kiss, making her heart swell and her head swim.      

 

She steps away first.  She can’t trust herself not to do something ridiculous, like beat her fists against his chest or throw her arms around him, neither of which is acceptable.  Solas’ expression remains the same, but his rigid posture relaxes with the distance between them restored.  It isn’t much, but she is glad to see that she has some effect on him.       

 

“I have spoken about the Dalish unfairly in the past,” Solas concedes.  “But there is nothing I could tell your people that would improve their situation.  They are better served by their ignorance — and you will be better served by turning your thoughts to the battle ahead.”

 

“Just like that?”

 

He gives her a pitying look.  She had not intended it, but she realizes that the question echoes the conversation they had not so long ago in this very room, when she was foolish enough to believe that she could depend on him always.  He must be thinking of her words, too. 

 

 _No matter what, I’ll have you by my side._    

 

Her throat tightens.  Solas never promised her anything of the kind.  She should have guarded her heart, as she always had before.

 

She is crying before she can make an effort to keep the tears at bay.  Solas winces, almost imperceptibly, and turns back towards the half-drawn figures on the wall.  Even if it is only to spare himself, she is glad of it. 

 

What she wants, though, is for him to take her in his arms and take back what he said in Crestwood, with or without explanation.

 

 _Andraste preserve me_. 

 

As with much of what has happened this evening, she cannot account for this silent plea: she is not Andrastian and has never believed she was their prophet’s chosen.  Maybe it’s the inevitable consequence of time spent with Cassandra and Cullen.  Still, she feels a pang of guilt for this lapse, and cannot help but wonder whether the loss of her _vallasin_ has severed her ties with the Elven gods and left her susceptible to the lure of the Maker.  It’s a ridiculous thought, she knows, but it is born of a greater fear that is far less absurd.  No matter what she tells them, there are those in Clan Lavellan who will see her bare face as a sign that she has forsaken their ways for those of the _shemlen_.  To them, the claim that the _vallaslin_ are slave markings will seem another vicious lie intended to rob the elven people of their dignity.  They will despise her for it.

 

Even before all this, she questioned whether she will ever truly belong in her clan after all she has seen and been through.  It was painful enough to consider then, when the choice was hers to make, but now that it may not be… 

 

“I am sorry that I have hurt you,” Solas says, turning to face her again.  The remorse in his eyes is unmistakable, but it does not help.

 

He does not understand that it is not only _him_ or _them_ ; he has thrown what she thought she knew about herself and her people into chaos and has left her to cope with it alone.   

 

“What would you have me do, Solas?” she demands, roughly palming the tears from her cheeks. 

 

“Harden your heart to a cutting edge and put your pain to good use against Corypheus.”

 

She is taken aback at the readiness of this reply, and wonders at how many times in his own mysterious life he put this advice to use.  She feels a pang of pity for him, but it passes all too quickly, leaving frustration in its wake.

 

“It would help me, Solas, if you could explain _why_.  You said that I was important to you—more important to you than you could have imagined.  I don’t believe you said that lightly, or that your feelings changed from one moment to the next.  What did?”

 

Solas sighs and folds his arms behind his back.  “The answers would only lead to more questions: an emotional entanglement that would benefit neither of us.”   

 

“It seems a little late to worry about emotional entanglements, _vhenan_.”  She makes no attempt to hide her bitterness. “Or have we gotten the meaning of ‘ _Ar lath ma_ ’ wrong, too?”

 

The corner of Solas’ mouth twitches, and, for a moment, there is a strange look of fondness in his eyes.  Just as soon, it is gone. 

 

Another tact, then.  She has hesitated to speak of it before for fear of embarrassing or pressuring him, but she’s past such concerns now.  “If this is because you don’t want to go to bed with me, I don’t care.  I mean, of course I do, and of course it matters, but…  If that kind of intimacy doesn’t interest you, it doesn’t change how I feel.  It isn’t more important to me than you.”

 

"You cannot—" Solas stops himself and bows his head in reflection, before responding coolly, “As always, you impress me with your consideration, Inquisitor.  However, a disinterest in intimacy of any kind with you is decidedly not the reason.”

 

Although there is not even a hint of innuendo in his voice, his gaze is direct, and a shiver snakes down her spine.  She entertains the idea of putting that claim to the test for rather longer than she should before her reason checks her.  That he hasn’t already given into her charms, so to speak, means that he almost certainly wouldn’t _now_. 

 

“So what, then?” she demands, flustered.  “What is it?  If it’s something I’ve said or done—”

 

“ _No_.  The blame is mine, not yours.  I am, as you said, selfish.  It was irresponsible of me.  Let that be enough.”

 

It isn’t.  How could it be?  But it’s clear, at least, that Solas does not trust her.  Maybe it is not enough that she gave up her _vallaslin_.  Maybe he cannot forgive her abiding loyalty to the Dalish when all he can see is their failings.  More likely, though, it is for reasons all his own—reasons he guards as jealously as he does his past.  She is too exhausted to wonder at what they might be. 

 

“You never let anyone see behind that mask of yours, do you?”

 

“You saw more than most.”  His brow furrows, and it seems as if he wished that she _had_ seen everything there was beneath. 

As much as she wants to insist that she _could_ understand, if only he would let her, it is clear that the mask is firmly on now.  The question of _why_ remains, of course, but it is different and deeper than the one she sought answers to before, and she has abandoned all hope that it will be answered tonight.

 

 She shakes her head and turns to the door wordlessly.

 

“Sleep well.”  A moment of hesitation.  He almost slipped.  The unspoken “ _vhenan_ ” hangs heavy in the air.  "Inquisitor."

 

She wills her heart to steel.


	2. After Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been ages since Solas has stepped out of a sultry room abuzz with gossip, seductions and plots into the wash of cool night air. For a moment, he is transported back to Arlathan, and it is almost as if the receding din is that of the Hall of Elgar’nan rather than Halamshiral. He remembers, viscerally, the way the exhaustion and triumph would set in all at once as soon as he was alone beneath an open sky; and how, even when he was convinced of a flawless performance, his mind would race for hours, and he would re-examine every word and gesture for any possible misstep…
> 
> Of course, before all that, he was merely a spectator, as tonight. This place is only a pale imitation of Arlathan, and the stakes of the Great Game are child’s play in comparison, but it is nevertheless strangely comforting to see that the way the Game is played has hardly changed.
> 
> He suspects that his own dear Player found the evening somewhat less enjoyable. If nothing else, from the way she is stooped over the balustrade of the veranda, it appears to have worn her out.

* * *

 

 After Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts

 

* * *

 

 It has been ages since Solas has stepped out of a sultry room abuzz with gossip, seductions and plots into the wash of cool night air.  For a moment, he is transported back to Arlathan, and it is almost as if the receding din is that of the Hall of Elgar’nan rather than Halamshiral.  He remembers, viscerally, the way the exhaustion and triumph would set in all at once as soon as he was alone beneath an open sky; and how, even when he was convinced of a flawless performance, his mind would race for hours, and he would re-examine every word and gesture for any possible misstep…

 

Of course, before all that, he was merely a spectator, as tonight.  This place is only a pale imitation of Arlathan, and the stakes of the Great Game are child’s play in comparison, but it is nevertheless strangely comforting to see that the way the Game is played has hardly changed.

 

He suspects that his own dear Player found the evening somewhat less enjoyable.  If nothing else, from the way she is stooped over the balustrade of the veranda, it appears to have worn her out.

 

The Empress’ advisor has just left her, and he watches the witch go with an arch of his brow.  She may not be Mythal’s true daughter, but she is nevertheless of interest.  How fortuitous that he will be able to observe her more closely.

 

For now, however, the Inquisitor is his primary concern.

 

“I’m not surprised to find you out here,” Solas remarks as he approaches.  “What are you thinking?”

 

She looks up at him and manages a weary smile.  “It’s stifling in there.  I needed a moment to breathe.”

 

“And reflect?”

 

“No, Creators forbid.  It’s been a long day, and I’m too tired to dwell on my decisions now.  I would sooner forget this business entirely, truth told, but I can only imagine the debriefing that Josephine has in store.”

 

“The courtiers seem pleased that Celine remains in power, though they know better than to behave otherwise.  Nevertheless, your name is on everyone’s lips, mingled with praise.”

 

A dubious honor to her, he is sure. 

 

“Our alliance is intact, and the Orlesian court has not descended into chaos, which I suppose is the best one could hope for under the circumstances,” she replies, her expression darkening.  He suspects she would not mind if the Orlesian empire disintegrated, but she is nothing if not dutiful to the cause.

 

“I _am_ sorry about Briala,” she adds, almost inaudibly.

 

He does not respond—his thoughts turn to Felassan, briefly, and with some regret.  Solas’ task will be simpler with Briala gone, but he remembers the admiration with which his agent spoke of her.  He could not understand at the time, but he does now. 

 

The Inquisitor straightens suddenly and looks at him with wide eyes.

 

“Josephine didn’t send you, did she?  Am I meant to be speaking to someone?”

 

The outburst and the pained expression on her face are enough to distract him from darker thoughts.  She has handled the evening with such poise that he almost forgot how much she had dreaded it, and the many hours she spent with Josephine, reluctantly practicing deportment and memorizing titles.          

 

“No, you’ve been relieved of your duties for the evening—or what little remains of it.  Josephine and Leliana have thrown Cullen into the path of those who most wished to speak to you.  That should keep them duly occupied.”

 

“Poor Cullen,” she says, though she looks more amused than pitying. 

 

“I suspect he will survive the evening, though perhaps not the inevitable teasing from Iron Bull and Sera on our journey back.  Speaking of which, I would be fascinated to know what Josephine’s reaction was when you informed her that you were bringing two elves and a Qunari spy as your companions to an imperial ball.  Surely Vivienne or Cassandra—even Dorian—were preferable choices.”

 

She laughs and leans closer towards him.  Somehow, after more than a year of living in the waking world, he is still thrown by small gestures of intimacy, even as he hungers for them.    

 

“I wanted Varric to come, rather than Sera, so Orlais would see that all races are welcome and valued in the Inquisition, but he begged me not to subject him to hordes of Orlesian nobles demanding when his next book would be published.  Apparently they can’t get enough of his writing here.  Sera was all too happy to take his place, for reasons I will assume were altruistic.  I considered bringing Cole, but thought an embodied spirit might be a step too far for Orlais.”

 

Her thoughtfulness surprises him, _again_ , though he should know by now to give her more credit.  He had thought she simply intended to be provocative. 

 

As if reading his thoughts, she adds with an unapologetic shrug, “Spite _may_ have factored into the decision as well.”

 

“I see.”  He smiles despite himself. 

 

“You enjoy this, don’t you?” she remarks after a moment of silence.

 

“ _This_?”

 

“This place.  These people.”  She gestures vaguely to their surroundings, brow furrowed.  “I didn’t expect you to so appreciate a place where appearance is everything and substance is irrelevant.”

 

“I admit Halamshiral holds a certain intrigue for me, though your aversion is well-taken.  Still, I take exception to the claim that substance is irrelevant here.  It matters greatly; it simply requires training to discern.”

 

“Perhaps,” she replies, frowning.  “It shouldn’t surprise me that you’d find it intriguing, with all the history and passion and plotting… For my own part, certain Dalish prejudices are difficult to shake.  Contempt for wealth achieved through the subjugation of my people, for one.”

 

She sends him a sidelong glance, as if to invite commentary on the Dalish or her claim to kinship with all elves.  He might have accepted such an invitation, once.  But the longer he is in this world, and the more time he spends with her, the more they become people, and the greater the indignities they face weigh upon him.  He allows himself to reflect on it only briefly, from time to time—one who refuses to confront oneself with the consequences of one’s actions is sure to become a monster—but indulging that guilt will serve no purpose. 

 

“I would not defend or excuse Orlais on that count,” he replies.  “Still, one must have some appreciation for the intricacy of the Great Game.”

 

“I do not deny that it requires skill, but it seems to me a miserable way to live.  One night of it has worn me out more than a week in the Hissing Wastes.”

 

Solas does not doubt it.  The Inquisitor is naturally reserved and patient, but her emotions, when piqued, are easily discerned.  Even tonight, amidst the pleasantries and repartee, there was a strange glint in her eye—the ember of barely suppressed resentment and disdain.     

 

How extraordinary, he thinks, to actually _be_ the person those around you see, or as near to it as is possible.  For his own part, Solas cannot imagine living without a mask.  It has been ages since his interactions with others were not guided by some greater purpose, circumscribed by an image he must maintain.  That is not to say that he was or is free from the temptation of allowing himself to be seen—not only by her, but by those who would degrade and dismiss him.  In younger days, his passionate nature often got the better of him, but he has gone to pains to tame his pride and to use the assumptions and misconceptions of others to his advantage. 

 

It is becoming more difficult, however, to conceal himself from her.  Proximity was unavoidable; affection was not.  If Solas were stronger (or _wiser_ , he thinks with a bitter pang), he would have held her at a distance after their kiss in the Fade.  Instead, he has allowed himself to be drawn further and further in.  At first, it was under the pretext of discerning whether his impression of her was justified; then, testing the limits of her sympathy and understanding.  He has waited and hoped and dreaded, in almost equal measure, for her to fall short at every turn.  It would all be easier if he had been right about them, and yet...

 

_And yet._   She surprises him with her curiosity and consideration at each turn.  He does not want his time with her to end. 

 

“On the subject of masks, you’re wearing a peculiar one right now,” she observes with an indulgent smile. 

 

“Forgive me.  As you said, it has been a long day.”  He takes her hand and lifts it to his lips, and presses a kiss against it. 

 

“I know,” she replies, giving his hand a squeeze in return.  “At least it’s almost over.  Soon we can go back to being ourselves.”

 

Solas knows he should let it pass, and allow her to enjoy the night air and some semblance of peace, but he cannot help himself.  “But you must be accustomed to wearing a mask at times.  Is ‘Herald of Andraste’ not a role you play?”

 

Her brow furrows, but she does not appear exasperated by the question. 

 

“You told me a long time ago that posturing was necessary.  That’s true.  Divine intervention is a more compelling explanation for the Anchor than an uncanny ability to survive disastrous situations.  These are difficult times, and if it brings people comfort to believe that I’m…  whatever it is they think I am, I don’t know that it’s my place to deprive them of that.  I’ve never feigned piety, though.  I consider my words and actions more now than I did before, but I’ve done my best to do what I believe is right, even when it’s not the most politically expedient choice.  Even when I know _you_ will disapprove.”  She nudges him with an elbow, teasingly, but her levity is short-lived.  “I admit tonight is a failure in that respect.”

 

Solas pities her for the burden of leadership that she bears, and the discomfort of being cast into the role of a near-deity—both of which he well understands—but he cannot help but envy the clarity of her path.  While the choices she has faced have not been all black and white, she has never had cause to question the righteousness of her cause. 

 

She robbed him of that same confidence in his own cause, but he cannot regret it.  Nor are such weighty thoughts for now, when music wafts through the air, and he is strangely moved by memories of a gilded past, and love of her, and foolhardy thoughts of a future that can never be.

 

“Forgive me, I should not have burdened you with such questions now.”  He steps back and extends a hand towards her, with a gallant half-bow.  “Before the band stops playing, dance with me.”

 

Despite her weariness, her eyes shine when she takes his hand.  When Solas pulls her close, he almost forgets, for a moment, that this is only a brief reprieve from the dark path ahead.


End file.
